Vendetta: The Guild War Book 1

For Vicki

My thanks to Tara Wynne and Liz Scheier for their support, encouragement and advice.

No, don’t! the woman screamed. Please don’t.

The man’s fist was huge, a tightly packed mass of bone, muscle, and sinew. For a moment it hung, poised over the woman; she stared up at it, shocked, disbelieving.

No, don’t! she screamed again. Stop! I’m sorry. I won’t—

Shut your mouth, you lying whore, the man snarled, and his fist exploded toward the woman’s face, a lethal weapon powered by rage and fear and self-loathing. Eyes wide in terror, the woman flinched as death drove into her face, her head turning aside a fraction, just enough to turn the killer punch into a blow that shattered her cheek and jaw before skidding off her temple to smash into the wall, its awful force exhausted in a mass of broken bones and ripped sinews.

Agony exploded up the man’s arm; the room filled with his tormented shrieks. Ruined fist cradled to his chest, he reeled back, the anger drowned by waves of agony that forced him to his knees, head down, as he fought to regain control.

When the pain finally eased, he lifted his head to look at the woman.

What have I done? he whispered, staring at her crumpled body. His head dropped again. What have I done?

Out on the street, the music was loud. Its heavy bass beat promised a night rich with opportunity. The excited crush milling around the door to the Warehouse Club was pulsating in anticipation.

It’s going to be great, Samira, just so great, Nat Qaaliba squealed as the mobibot pulled up. I told Jezza and Kolo to expect the best night of their short, sad lives. And you know what? They believed me!

Nat! Samira Anders protested, following her out of the mobibot and into the crowd. You might think Jezza’s the guy for you, and maybe he is, she said, but Kolo is not for me. He is such a loser, and I don’t like him anyway. I’m only doing this because you asked me to.

And so you should, ‘cause that’s what best friends are for, Nat declared, dismissing Samira’s objections with an airy wave of her hand. I’d do the same for you, and you know it. Look, when I’ve hooked up with Jezza, you can ditch Kolo. Then you can find someone better or you can try the Cave. It’ll still be kicking.

Gee, thanks, Nat. Samira sighed. It’s so good to know you care. What a great evening I’m in for: fighting off Kolo while I watch you slobber all over Jezza. Ecchh!

Hey!

Yeah, yeah. More to the point, have you got the stimtabs? Thanks to Judge Tamsin Tightbuttocks, I’m going to be scanned on the way in.

Yeah, I’ve got some. But are you sure you want them? You’ve been clean for weeks now.

Do I want them? Are you kidding? Shit, yes, I want them. I’m in the mood to party, and no judge with a stick up her ass is going to stop me.

Nat shook her head. It’s your call, even if it’s a really dumb one. If the police nail you . . .

They won’t, and you’re getting boring, so shut it. Hey! How’re my tats?

Nat glanced at Samira’s nanocrystal tattoos, a dusting of tiny lights splashed across her cheekbones, a coruscating smear that danced up and down the spectrum in sync with her mood. Great, she sniffed. They look just great.

So they should, Samira said, ignoring the sniff. Her tattoos were a sore point with Nat. They cost me a fortune, every cent of which I earned, Natalie Qaaliba.

Whatever.

Thank you so much, Nat. Come on, move your ass. I need a stimtab and a shot—like now.

• • •

Black hair thrashing, Samira Anders threw her head back; piercing blue eyes staring and mouth open wide, she howled out an ululating scream that pulsed in time to the waves of raw energy beating down from overhead flatspeakers. Around her a mob of heaving humanity packed shoulder to shoulder followed suit, goaded into a stimtab-fueled frenzy by the hard-pounding music.

Nat and Jezza were long gone—Samira had no idea where to, not that she cared—and the hapless Kolo had been told to bug off, leaving her lost in a world of her own, her body driven on and on and on by an unstoppable sense of power. Her head went back again. Don’t try and stop me, you baaaaastaaards, she screamed. Don’t try and stop me, because Samira . . . Anders . . . is . . . un . . . fucking . . . stoppable!

• • •

Trooper Djamani stretched in a futile attempt to ease the knots out of her back. It had been a long, slow shift, and—not for the first time—she wondered why she’d ever agreed to leave Old Earth to come to Klimath with that asshole of a husband of hers.

Talk about mistakes, she thought. They don’t come much bigger.

Klimath, the man had said, eyes sparkling with excitement, was the place for them: one of the Rogue Planets and a place blessed with a light-handed government, a place groaning with opportunities, a place to grow rich and live well.

She’d believed him, lovelorn idiot that she was, only to find when she arrived that Klimath was a wreck struggling to get back on its feet after a short but brutal civil war.

Six months later, she’d woken up to find the son of a bitch gone; the last she’d heard, he had taken off for Karleon-IV, an even bigger shithole than Klimath, taking with him some slut he’d met at the gym and every last cent in their joint account.

Cop or not, if she ever caught up with the man, she was going to rip his smooth-talking tongue out and jam it up his ass.

She lifted her head to look up at the night sky, wondering if she’d ever save up enough money to return home. She sighed. She knew the answer to that question: never, not on a police trooper’s pay. Old Earth was more than two thousand light-years away, and the starship fares were ruinously expensive, more than fifty times the migrant fare she and the asshole had paid to get to Klimath.

So, while the rest of the human race was living in the twenty-third century, where was she? Marooned on a planet doomed never to break out of the twenty-first, or so it seemed to her jaundiced eye.

The radio dragged her back to reality. 67-Bravo, Control. Reports of a disturbance outside the Warehouse, corner Merrick and Christakos. Can you take it?

Trooper Djamani swore under her breath; better a long, slow night than dealing with the Warehouse and its brain-fried patrons. Aggravation was all the Bellingen police department ever got from the bloody place. Show me responding, she replied, trying not to sound too grumpy.

She swore some more as she sent her cruiser on its way. Merrick and Christakos were at the heart of Bellingen’s club district, and that always meant trouble of the worst sort at closing time: kids, lots of them, all fired up on alcohol and stimtabs. The little bastards, she thought moodily, all seething hormones and not one speck of common sense.

Cruiser 67-Bravo turned onto Merrick. Oh, shit, she murmured as she scanned the scene. The wave of people who had been pushed out when the Warehouse closed had spilled onto the street, the brawl at its heart escalating as new fighters joined in, goaded on by the mob.

When her repeated warnings to disperse or be arrested were ignored, Trooper Djamani’s patience ran out. Punching buttons, she deployed 67-Bravo’s squad of crowdbots. Squat and ugly, the bots fanned out into a wedge before plowing through the crowd to head directly for the fight, loudspeakers bellowing instructions to step aside, any laggards shoved aside with mindless efficiency, hyperslip skins frustrating those dumb enough to try to push the bots away. In only a matter of seconds, the wedge had punched through to the mob’s heart. Trooper Djamani’s fingers danced across her control console as she designated the priority targets for her bots; one by one, they pulled fighters out of the melee with mindless efficiency, then plasticuffed them and dropped them to the ground before moving on to the next, any resistance crushed by a short, sharp burst from a neural stunner.

As finger and thumb snuff out a candle, so Djamani’s bots snuffed out the brawl; it was over before many in the crowd realized what was happening. Leaving the trussed bodies to writhe and scream out their frustration and anger, Djamani’s bots moved the crowd on, herding it away down the street, harassing the mob until it disintegrated into a melee fleeing into the night.

Now that’s how it’s done, Djamani said to herself, nodding her satisfaction as she keyed her mike. Control, 67-Bravo. Disturbance is under control. I have, let me see . . . sixteen in custody. Request bodybot.

Sixteen in custody, understood. Bodybot is on its way, 67-Bravo.

Roger that. Thanks.

Djamani climbed out of the air-conditioned comfort of her cruiser, cursing the night air as it enveloped her in a thick, damp blanket that started the sweat trickling down her face and neck. She was from the far north of Old Earth and had always hated Bellingen’s unremittingly hot, muggy climate. She walked over to where her crowdbots waited in a protective circle around trussed bodies. Right, she shouted. Hands up anyone who thinks they’ve been wrongly arrested. Anybody . . . no?

Djamani laughed at her own joke—she always did, even if the joke was old and tired—and got to work. Ignoring the invective, she made sure none of the kids was going to die on her, then checked their identities, made the formal arrests, and read them their rights.

The bodybot arrived as she was uploading the arrest files back to base. Evening, Jacqui, the trooper in charge called out, climbing down from the cab.

Well, well, well, if it isn’t Trooper Nikolai Bertoni, Djamani called. Sorry I had to get your big fat ass out of bed.

The hell you are! Bertoni said, looking around at the carnage. Only sixteen tonight? he went on, waving a hand across the bodies. You taking it easy or what?

Shit, no, Djamani said, shaking her head, I’m just ruthlessly efficient. Come on, give me a hand.

Together, the troopers manhandled bodies into the bodybot, Djamani swearing sotto voce throughout as the sweat started to trickle down her back in earnest. She swore some more as she pushed the last of them—Samira Anders, according to her ID, and barely eighteen, her face dominated by intense blue eyes that burned with rage—into the cage, feet flailing in a vain attempt to delay the inevitable.

I hope they send you down, sugar, Djamani said, because this is the second time I’ve arrested you, and that’s twice too often. Not that those useless bastard judges will; they never bloody well do.

Right, Nik, that’s it, she said, scanning the area to make sure they had everyone. Off you go. I’m going to talk to the scumbags who run the Warehouse Club . . . again.

Bertoni shook his head. You’re wasting your time, girlie.

I know; nothing’s ever their damn fault.

No, it’s not. See ya, Jacqui.

Not tonight, I hope.

• • •

Get out!

Take me home, Dad, Samira Anders said, her voice slurred by the residual effects of too many stimtabs and too much alcohol. I don’t want to—

I don’t care what you want, Matti Anders said, his face red with anger. When you moved out, I told you there was no coming back. It was your decision to live in a rat hole with your shithead friends, so that’s exactly what you’re going to do.

But I don’t feel so good.

I’m not interested. Now get out before I kick you out.

You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Samira snarled. You’d like to kick me out. Why do you think I left home? Because I was sick of the way you kept beating the crap out of me all the time. You’re damn lucky I didn’t press charges the last time you put me in hospital, you bastard.

Get out, now! Matti Anders shouted.

Screw you, Samira mumbled as she opened the mobibot’s door and staggered out.

Don’t push me, Samira, or I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.

Whatever.

I’ll be back at nine to pick you up, so be ready. Now is not the time to piss the police off by turning up late for the judge.

Late for the judge? Samira snorted dismissively. Screw her too.

Listen to me, Samira! You’re out of chances. You’re damn lucky they only charged you with public drunkenness and creating a disturbance. Throwing that punch at Sergeant Paulescu wasn’t smart.

I barely touched her.

Doesn’t matter. You could have been charged with assault.

Yeah, yeah. Like I give a shit.

You should. The cops won’t cut you any slack the next time you step out of line. Nine o’clock, Samira, and don’t be late or I will kick your useless butt, Matti called as Samira slammed the door in his face.

Asshole, Samira screamed as the mobibot pulled away.

• • •

Bloody judges, Matti said, banging the door open and pushing Samira inside. That’s all I need, having you back home.

If it makes you feel any better, Samira said, I’m not happy about it either.

I’m warning you, Matti snapped. You put one foot wrong and I’m throwing you back to the police. Do you understand what that means?

Piss off, Dad. I know what my bail conditions are.

Matti stepped back, his face mottled red with anger. Get out of my sight, he hissed. I don’t want to see you again today. I’ve had all I can take from you.

Don’t worry, the feeling’s mutual, Samira shouted as she headed for the kitchen, all too aware of the risks she ran every time she pushed her father too hard. By the way, Dad, she called over her shoulder when she was safely out of his reach, I want to talk about the business tomorrow.

Samira slammed the kitchen door on Matti Anders, leaving him speechless with rage, fists clenching and unclenching as he fought to keep control.

Don’t walk away from me, Samira. I haven’t finished yet!

Go fuck yourself.

And watch your language, young lady! Matti Anders shouted.

Don’t you ‘young lady’ me! Samira Anders spit, spinning on her heel so fast that her shoulder-length black hair fanned out away from a face flushed red with anger. Piercing blue eyes narrowed, she stamped her frustration into the dust. All I get from you is the same old bullshit. You never give me a proper answer. Never!

Yes, I do, Matti snapped. A hundred times, and my answer’s the same: No! You’re only eighteen. You’re too inexperienced, you’re too damn mouthy to go on operations, and that’s the end of it.

Crap! You were a year younger than me when Granddad took you on your first mission, and you hadn’t even joined the military. A full year younger!

That was different.

Oh, really? Come on, Dad. The age thing won’t wash, and you know it. I’ve finished school, and I don’t want to do anything else; you know that. As for being too inexperienced, how am I ever going to get the experience sitting on my butt? Besides, I’m a better systems operator than Uncle Jaska. Every time we go head to head in the simulator, I whip his ass. He won’t take me on anymore. And my command pilot rating is almost as good as yours, she added, flashing a smug, self-satisfied grin.

I wish I’d never agreed to you getting your lander license, Matti said. "That was the worst damn mistake I ever made . . . that and letting you fly Bitsa solo. He shook his head. What the hell was I thinking?"

I got my command pilot’s qualification first time, Dad, remember? I wanted that license, and I made sure I got it. I didn’t let you down, did I?

No, no, you didn’t, Matti said with a grudging nod, but a license is just a bit of fancy paper to hang on the wall. It doesn’t count for shit when people start firing cannon shells at you. Besides, after what happened last night, how the hell can I trust you?

Dad! I’ve said sorry. I didn’t mean to get into that fight; it just happened.

Oh, really? And the alcohol and stimtabs had nothing to do with it, then? Why the judge hasn’t kept you locked up, I do not know. I would have.

Gee, thanks, Dad. Good to know I can count on you.

Watch it, Samira. Matti paused to take a deep breath. Like I say, the fact that you ended up in a fight at all proves I can’t trust you.

That’s just another of your piss-weak excuses, Samira said. You don’t get it, do you?

What? Matti demanded. What don’t I get?

I’m bored shitless, Dad. I know exactly what I want to do with my life; why can’t you see that? It’s time for me to join the business. You know I can do the job. How many more sims do I have to do to prove that?

There’s more to this business than being good in the simulator, one hell of a lot more. And I don’t care how smart you are; you cannot take Jaska’s place on this or any other mission and you never will. If you really want to be a lander pilot, go join the KDF; they’ll—

Join the Klimath Defense Force? Samira snorted. You’ve got to be joking! They’re a bunch of clowns. Marching around, saluting, fancy uniforms, yes sir, no sir, and all the rest of that military bullshit? Forget it. Anyway, when did they last do anything? They haven’t seen combat since the civil war.

Combat? Matti said, his voice rising to a half shout. Is that what you want? Combat? You have no idea what you’re talking about, Samira, none at all.

You’ve got that right, she said, her face soured by a sullen scowl. How could I know? You won’t let me fly missions.

Listen to me, Samira. Simulators teach you nothing about the real world, about death, how it feels to kill someone, to be so terrified you can barely breathe, the fear so bad all you want to do is run away and hide. Combat is a bloody business. It still frightens me, and I’ve been doing it a long time. Kill or be killed, Samira; that’s what combat is about. You ready for that? No, how can you be? Everything you know comes from time in the simulator. Please, he continued, his voice softening, please . . . give me a break. We’re due to fly out tonight, and I’ve a lot to do before we go.

Dad, I—

Enough, Samira! Matti Anders turned and started to walk away. No more, please.

I wish Mom was still alive. Samira yelled. She’d say it was okay; I know she would.

Matti spun around, his right hand coming up, balling into a fist. Samira flinched, instinctively stepping back, her hands going up to ward her father off; it had been many years since he had last hurt her, but she had never forgotten the pain and humiliation.

You have no idea what she’d— Matti stopped. His hand opened, and a finger stabbed out, puncturing the air with each word. Don’t bring your mother into this, you hear me! he shouted. Never, or I’ll kick your ass. You got that?

Yes, Dad, Samira replied with a scowl, puzzled as always by her father’s explosive reaction to any mention of her mother. She wished she knew why; she had made the mistake of asking once. She had never asked again; she could still feel the stinging pain from his open palm slamming across her face and shoulders again and again and again, his face red with fury.

I hope so, Matti growled. Now piss off and leave me alone. I’ve got work to do even if you don’t.

You are a complete asshole, Samira murmured under her breath. She glared after her father as he stamped his way up the ladder into a battered ground-attack lander, a brutally ugly slab-sided machine that towered a good fifteen meters over her, heat from the morning sun rising off its scarred ceramsteel armor in shimmers of twisting air blown away on the wind.

The family had christened it Bitsa because of the way pieces kept dropping off its overworked frame—how the damn thing stayed airborne was a complete mystery to her—and Samira loved every dent and scratch.

The cargo-bay access door slammed shut behind Matti Anders, as if to emphasize his unshakeable determination not to let her take her rightful place onboard.

Why? she shouted at the lander’s brooding mass. Why won’t you let me do my bit? Stubborn cantankerous miserable old bastard!

A sudden rage flared, hot and explosive. Samira booted a rock into Bitsa’s side armor, a vicious full-bodied kick that bounced the stone off timeworn ceramsteel with a metallic plink before it dropped uselessly into the dust. Just like arguing with her father, Samira thought, her anger gone as quickly as it had come, a complete waste of time. She should talk to Uncle Jaska. At least he understood her, and he didn’t think she was too young to be Bitsa’s systems operator. Any time you want my seat, you can have it, he would say before adding—as he always did—that he was too old and too tired to enjoy being shot at by the Rogue Worlds’ criminal classes.

Honestly, she thought, why was talking to Uncle Jaska so easy and talking to her father so difficult?

She’d re-run the sim of the most dangerous mission her father had ever done, she decided. It was a doozy, a mission she had never been able to complete without having Bitsa blown out from under her. If you can use an antiquated attack lander to blast a Lassarian privateer out of low earth orbit, she said to herself, then so can I.

And when I do, she added, maybe then you’ll give me my chance.

With newfound determination, she set off for the simulator.

• • •

Jaska Anders had watched the confrontation from Bitsa’s maintenance shop, a hardened ceramcrete shelter arching high enough to hold two heavy landers, where he and Buqisi Karua had been working on a recalcitrant hydraulic pump. He straightened up, wincing as his back protested the hours spent hunched over broken equipment.

The fights between Matti and Samira were weekly events, and it was always a relief to see them end without Matti losing it. The thought that the man might do to Samira what he had done to so many others haunted Jaska’s every waking moment.

Hey, Jaska! Stop daydreaming; this damn pump’s not going to fix itself. Buqisi’s protest snapped Jaska back to reality.

Sorry, Buq, he said. Just watching the latest bust-up. I wish Matti would cut Samira a bit more slack.

You worry too much. Samira will be fine.

I’m not sure about that. And anyway, why shouldn’t I worry? That girl’s the closest thing I’ll ever have to a daughter.

I know she is, Buqisi said, walking over, but you still worry too much,

She pushes Matti pretty hard. I’m afraid that one day he’ll . . . Jaska’s voice trailed away.

Yeah. And you’re right. She needs to be careful.

She does. Jaska nodded. She knows how to punch his buttons. I worry she’s going to push too hard, tip him over the edge.

We all know what Matti’s capable of, but somehow I don’t think he would lose it with Samira, not after what he did—

Don’t! Jaska snapped. Don’t say it; don’t even think it.

Sorry, Jaska, Buqisi said. You know what? she said, breaking the long silence that followed.

What?

As long as I live, I’ll never understand that girl.

Nor me, Jaska said, but I do know where she’s going in such a hurry.

Ah, let me guess, Buq said, tapping her lips with a forefinger. It’s Friday afternoon, so that means . . . yes, self-defense class, then two hours with Nat Qaaliba planning the weekend’s fun and games, another two hours getting dressed to go out, and then on to one of those crappy clubs in town. Right?

You are. Jaska laughed. That girl’s nothing if not predictable.

She is. I just hope she doesn’t get herself arrested again.

Now, that is something to worry about, Jaska said. Her social life is getting less social and more criminal by the day.

It is. But she’ll learn. We did.

Took us a while, though, Jaska said with a rueful smile.

Kids are kids, Jaska. We can talk until we’re blue in the face, and Samira won’t hear a damn word. The way she’s going, it’s going to take a miracle to keep her out of jail, and that may be just the lesson she needs.

I wish Matti understood that. And I wish he understood how badly she wants to be part of the business.

He doesn’t, and he never will.

No, Jaska said, shaking his head. Not that Samira has any idea of what it’s like being a gun for hire.

Did you, Jaska? Buqisi demanded. No, you damn well didn’t. Give the girl a break. She’s an adult now; she has the right to make her own decisions. She’s known what she’s wanted to do for years. If she wants in, let her in. It’s the only way to find out whether it’s what she really wants.

I know, I know. And you can’t blame her. Her whole life has revolved around Matti, and his life has revolved around the business. I don’t think they ever talked about much else. Guess what she told me once.

What?

That she lies awake nights when her dad’s away on a mission, wondering how things are going, hoping he gets back okay, wishing she could be with him to make sure things go well.

Let me guess, Buqisi said. Matti has no idea?

No, none. A rock has more empathy. I asked him once if he worried about leaving Samira. He said no, why would he when she had the housekeeper to talk to?

The housekeeper? How many of those have there been over the years?

Too many; more than I can remember.

That damn temper of his.

Yeah. But I think she’ll be okay. Might take a while, but she’ll turn out good. She’s got her mother’s smarts and toughness.

Her mother was a good woman; I think Samira is too.

She is. We’re lucky she didn’t inherit Matti’s temper.

Buqisi grinned. One’s enough, eh?

Oh, yes, Jaska said.

Right, enough of that, Buqisi said, all business. Time to get back to that pump.

Yeah, yeah. Who made you the boss?

Jaska! In my workshop I’m the boss, and you know it.

Sadly, Buq, Jaska said with a sigh, that is the truth, and I do know it.

"I would hope so. Come on, then; Matti’s going to kick my ass if the bloody thing isn’t back in Bitsa soon."

Pity you can’t fix my back while you’re at it, Jaska grumbled as he followed Buq back into the workshop, trying in vain to stretch the kinks out of a back damaged by a single fragment from a 40-millimeter cannon shell, the injury not helped by too many hours spent jammed into a combat spacesuit.

• • •

Yup, I think that’s it, Buqisi said, stepping back, her eyes scanning Bitsa’s hull to make sure everything was buttoned up. I’ve got no idea how, but the old girl is ready.

I was beginning to wonder if we’d be able to get away, Jaska said as the pair walked back to the workshop, the evening sun bathing the maintenance shop in a golden yellow light that made the timeworn ceramcrete structure look almost new. That damn pump was a bitch.

I’ll order a replacement. We can’t go on stripping it out after every mission, and anyway, it’s pretty much had it.

Matti won’t like that. Pumps are expensive.

When it comes to spare parts for a lander as old as that one— Buqisi waved a dismissive hand in Bitsa’s direction. —everything’s expensive. I’ll go down and talk to old man Kaitana, see what I can do.

That old crook? Good luck.

Good luck? Buqisi smiled to reveal teeth startlingly white against skin so dark that it was almost black. Don’t need good luck. That old crook owes me.

He still screws us, though.

Yeah, he does, just not as badly as he could. You want a beer, Jaska? she asked, reaching into a battered fridge.

Nah. Too close to takeoff.

Come on! You can always slap on a detox patch.

No thanks.

Suit yourself, Buqisi said, ripping open the can and draining the contents in one swallow. Tossing the empty over her shoulder in the general direction of the recycling bin, she reached back into the fridge to pull out a second. You always were one for the rules.

Kept me alive all these years, Buq, so I’m not going to change things now. I intend to live long enough to enjoy my retirement.

Which won’t happen unless you stop flying missions.

I will.

Yeah, yeah. So you say, Jaska. You never do, though.

A long silence followed, the only sound a soft creaking as the ceramcrete overhead started to give up the day’s heat, cooled by the evening air.

No, I don’t, Jaska whispered softly. No, I don’t.

And he wouldn’t, not until Matti allowed Samira to take over from him. Samira might be young and out of control, but from the moment she’d taken Bitsa’s controls for the first time, she had known what she wanted to do with her life. If he quit, Matti would find himself another systems operator, and that would spell the end of Samira’s ambitions.

He might only be Samira’s great-uncle, but she was like a daughter to him, and what she wanted from life mattered. If he quit, he would be betraying her, and that he would never do.

A pink smear announced the new day, faint and uncertain at first, then strengthening through red, then gold, then yellow as the rising sun scoured night from the eastern sky. The extravagant display did not impress Konrad Onuku; every dawn on Kapsos-VII was the same, and he had seen too many of them.

Onuku cursed under his breath and spit into the dust. A cloudless sky promised another hot day, the latest in an unending succession of hot days. One week; that was all this operation was supposed to take: one week. And here they were, into the third week with no end in sight. Onuku spit again; he scanned the ground in front of his position for the umpteenth time. He saw nothing except a rock-strewn expanse of dirt that dropped away from the old mining base down to a dry creek bed. It looked the same as it did the day they brought the girl here; he wondered why he stood